


Before We Sleep

by Authoressinhiding



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authoressinhiding/pseuds/Authoressinhiding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced inaction had never suited Horatio - not when such a long road lay ahead and he alone could chart their path back to the Indy.  Archie lived, and this prison could not hold them for long.  It was only a matter of timing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to C.S. Forester, A &E, and ITV.**

* * *

_"The woods are lonely, dark and deep,_   
_But I have promises to keep,_   
_And miles to go before I sleep,_   
_And miles to go before I sleep." - Robert Frost_

In his relief and joy at finding Archie alive – joy that refused to be tempered by the dark cell around them or his fellow officer's maddened, unkempt appearance – Horatio had been overcome to the point of forgetting all prudence. His heart leapt and thudded in his chest, beating heedlessly against his ribs, its ecstatic tattoo surely loud enough for Hunter to hear. Archie lived, and even in this thankless hellhole of a prison, that miracle was enough to bring the sunlight back into the world.

Horatio breathed and felt himself relieved of a terrible burden. His deeds, that night taking the Papillion, had not caused the loss of his friend's life. Archie lived. He had not died, adrift in the harsh embrace of the ocean, mouth dry as the desert, bleeding from parched lips as the salty sea around him mocked his thirst. Or worse, been shot by some filthy Frenchman or Spaniard who would never understand the incomparable value of the man whose life they had just snuffed out.

Archie lived, and Horatio was redeemed, redeemed of the dreadful sin of having been the agent of his best and only friend's destruction. Simpson may have cut the fatal rope, but Archie would never have been helpless and unconscious in that jolly boat if not for Horatio's actions.

He was so relieved by the lifting of a fragment of his guilt that Horatio neglected to say any of the hundreds of things he had often longed to tell Archie over the years. The words and thoughts fell completely from his mind, and all he could do was bask, perched on the edge of his new bunk, watching the sleeping form of his shipmate in the darkness, a thousand plans running through his mind. He was scheming, and the rapid facility of his brain as he erected the bare framework of an escape plan surprised even him.

Considering with care, the acting lieutenant reviewed each of his men – Matthews, Styles, Oldroyd, Drummond, Flanagan, Cooper, Hunter – coolly assessing their abilities and character in much the same way that a silversmith selected the exact tools for a new commission. Gather your resources, know all you could about your enemy, and then act.

Horatio's mind was alight, and the muffled snores of Hunter on the bunk above could do nothing to dim the fire of his cheer. Archie lived! The soft breathing on the other side of the cell was a testament to that, the breathing that drew his memory back to anxious nights on the Justinian and the warm promise of battles and redemption on the Indy.

Archie lived, and every quiet breath reminded Horatio of that and filled him with hope. If such happy miracles could happen, if the sea could be forced to relinquish her dead, if life could be breathed back into a corner of Horatio's heart that he had sealed off years ago, then this prison could not hold them for long.

Archie lived, and they would escape. It was only a matter of timing.

. . . tbc . . .

* * *

**A/N** : HH was a part of my childhood and had the most influence on my character of any piece of literature or film, with the possible exception of The Lord of the Rings. I have often contemplated writing a piece of fic for HH, but until now, I had never found an idea that I thought worthy of publication. This idea will probably run from 5-10 short chapters. Feedback would be greatly appreciated!  
-AiH


	2. Disbelief

It was the lack of motion that woke him, the uncomfortable stillness which meant he was once again on land. Next to filter into his sleep-muddled mind was the stifling humidity. His uniform was plastered to his skin from the black necktie loosened around his neck to the long stockings scratching against his calves. Just as Horatio's body accepted the temperature, the stench of sweat and human refuse hit his nostrils.

Horatio's eyes opened of their own accord as the reminders of his present situation sank in. He turned his head to the side, glancing across the bare cell to the boxed bed by the other wall. Its occupant lay as motionless as he had the night before. The man's eyelids, a bruised purple and red, fluttered slightly with each rise and fall of his chest, and his tangle of dark blond hair looked as soaked with sweat as Horatio's felt. Reassured, the acting lieutenant gazed above him to the slats of the upper bunk. Hunter was no longer snoring, which meant he must be awake.

The euphoria of discovery had faded after a night's fitful sleep, and the grim realities of their condition presented themselves. Archie lived, but he was not the Archie that Horatio remembered. A fierce and trapped madness lingered in place of the merry troublemaker who had helped Horatio survive to his eighteenth birthday. Those clear blue eyes, impish and playful in memory, were clouded and wild.

Horatio had not been the only one whose life had drastically changed while they were apart. Archie's sleeping face hinted at horrors that his younger friend could only imagine, and a quiet voice deep in Horatio's bones warned that those horrors would have to be addressed before escape could be seriously considered.

Forced inaction had never suited Horatio – not when such a long road lay ahead and he alone could chart their path back to the Indy. His had been the command, and he had sailed his men, his passenger, and the admiralty's dispatches straight into the welcoming arms of the Spanish fleet. Their safety had been his responsibility, and now, were any harm to come to them – or the Duchess, or the dispatches – the fault would be his to bear and his alone. The weight was crushing. He had failed them, and he must make recompense by bringing them all safely back home again. Especially Archie, who he had failed most.

The beginnings of panic coursed through his veins. He closed his mind to the heat and the smell and the ever-present fear of failure and forced himself to cool. His men were relying on him. Matthews, Styles, Oldroyd were relying on him. In the few days since Le Rêve had been retaken, they had already indicated, with a sidelong glance or a tip of the head, that they were waiting for his signal, waiting for his plan, trusting that once again Mr. Hornblower, with the luck of the Devil himself, would save them.

To fail once would be too costly, both in terms of physical consequences and morale. When they tried to escape, they must succeed. And in order to succeed, they needed to be well-prepared and physically sound. It would take time, and patience. Horatio could do that. He would start with Archie, using the other man's health to gauge when it was time to go.

Filled with resolve and purpose, Horatio swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He pushed himself upright, his stomach flopping half-heartedly against his spine in a futile attempt to be noticed. Its pleas were easily ignored. Three years in the King's service had taken a callow seventeen-year-old youth and had hardened him beyond recognition of that starry-eyed boy who had dreamt of the sea.

Horatio got to his feet, the movement providing a welcome reprieve from the sticky moisture slowly trickling down between his shoulder blades. Moving freshened the air, momentarily creating Horatio's own breeze that gently caressed the scant few inches of skin bared by his uniform. Revolving slowly on the spot, he examined every corner of the ten by ten room where he was to spend the foreseeable future.

Light filtered in through the barred window and the porthole in the door, nowhere near enough to illuminate the room, but enough to facilitate Horatio's peering into the dimmer corners. He noted the two beds with their roughened bedding and their occupants – Hunter leaning against the wall at the head of his bunk, his eyes bright and hard in the midmorning gloom, and Archie, a silent, shifting figure still wrapped in blankets. Apart from these and a wooden bucket with rusted handle in the far corner, the cell was devoid of furnishings. Horatio rocked back on his heels, curiously satisfied. It could be better – and a great deal better, at that – but it could also be far worse.

His survey complete, the man glanced to his right to catch the fleetest moment of reddened eyes looking up at him, before they darted away and fixed themselves to an imaginary point on the far wall. For the first time, hesitation chilled Horatio. Perhaps this would not be as straightforward as he had imagined.

He took a place on the edge of Archie's bed, settling himself by the older man's hip, giving him as much room as he could. Impinging on Archie's space had never been a consideration on the Indy, but now cold reason had pierced through Horatio's earlier excitement. He tendered the distance both as a courtesy and a precaution.

"Good morning, Archie." He bolstered the words with normalcy, telling himself to act as though this was just another day belowdecks.

Archie's chin jerked to the side, and he stared at his former shipmate warily. "Horatio?" His voice was deathly quiet and utterly empty of inflection. Blue eyes swept up and down the unfamiliar face as if on a quest to relearn the new lines at the corner of its eyes and mouth. Horatio remained perfectly immobile, aware of Hunter's suspicious gaze and disregarding it. If this was what Archie needed to remember, to be himself again, then he would have it.

The older midshipman propped himself up on his elbows, untangling his upper body from the coarse horse blanket in the process. A strand of matted hair fell forward from where it had been tucked behind his ear, a visual reminder that not all was as it should be. Archie Kennedy, the relentless optimist of Horatio's memory, had always taken a modicum of care for his appearance, at least where tying his blond hair into a horsetail had been concerned.

"I thought I was dreaming," he continued in that alien voice. "Is it really you?"

Pity twinged painfully in Horatio's chest. "Yes, Archie," he replied, his tone softening from that of Acting Lieutenant Hornblower to plain Horatio. He spoke in a way that would have been entirely unfamiliar to the men in his division: gentle and relaxed and soothing. The sort of voice his father used on particularly ill patients.

Lips pressed close together, Horatio smiled, even as something burned in the backs of his eyes. "It really is me."


	3. Horror

"I was having a fit, wasn't I? . . . Strange, I never had any trouble with them . . . until you came."

The words seared through Horatio's mind, leaving a burning trail of guilt and misery in their wake. He had barely been in the prison for two scant days, and already he had formed some rather unflattering opinions of the food and the guards. This nightmare was survivable, but by no means pleasant. The food at its best was a half step below that served to the Indy's crewmen at the worst of times, and the guards, while maintaining their distance, had made it more than clear that they were ready to respond to the first signs of rebellion with harsh, quick violence.

From the hollows around his old shipmate's eyes, Horatio deemed that Archie had seen far worse things in the series of prisons that had taken him further and further from England than bad food or a brief beating could account for. It horrified him to hear that despite the deprivations of his imprisonment, the terrors and the seizures that had tormented Archie so desperately in Spithead and that last awful night on the Indy had not returned – not until he, Horatio, had returned. The idea that he was the cause for the onset of Archie's fits wounded him to the marrow. It hollowed his relief at the recovery of his friend and left in its place an ache so deep and terrible that it made a pistol ball to the shoulder seem bearable in comparison.

He leaned over the figure in the bed, trying to capture that frightened, stubborn gaze. One hand gripped Archie's shoulder. His long fingers moved once, twice, three times in a random pattern against the sweat-soaked linen of the other man's shirt in a vain attempt to calm or soothe him. Archie twisted away from his grasp. He rolled onto his right side to face the wall, his shoulders heaving as he took in deep, gasping breaths, his hands contorted wildly where they clutched his blanket to his chest.

"Leave me be, Horatio," he said in an exhausted tone, once he ceased panting. "Go back to sleep."

"Archie." At any other time, Horatio would have been appalled by the agony that leaked through his own voice. Hunter was awake, watching and listening. He could not afford to appear vulnerable or weak, not if he hoped to retain the midshipman's support. He could not be disconcerted, could not be moved. And yet, his conscience refused to allow him to be anything other than what he was, than who he was. Horatio was not an eloquent man. He was utterly lost, bewildered by the back turned towards him in clear rejection. He could not recall Archie ever having rejected him before.

Even on the blackest days, when they were both so lost and broken in their own seas of misery, when their minds were entirely occupied by personal hells of Simpson's devising, even then there had been sunlit afternoons spent racing up to the fighting top or practicing swordplay under Lieutenant Eccleston's watchful eye. No matter how hopeless life had been, knowing that Archie was there with him had made it endurable, until the prospect of a duel heralded an end to their misfortunes.

And then, on the deck of the Indy, with nothing more to fear than death at the hands of the enemy, their camaraderie had bloomed, and one day, Horatio had woken to realize that, out of the three hundred souls on board the Indefatigable, only one of them possessed and exercised the familiarity to employ his Christian name.

All this passed through the young man's mind in an instant while his hand hovered awkwardly in the air a few inches above the blond midshipman's left shoulder. "Archie," he repeated, dropping his voice softer than a whisper. "Archie. There is something that I need to tell –"

"Horatio." It was a warning. Whatever message he had been about to pass on, Archie wanted none of it. "Leave me be."

Guilt surged within him at the resignation in his friend's voice. Words caught in Horatio's throat, churning in place as he wrestled with indecision. Archie needed to know the full truth. He needed to know how Simpson had wrought his own destruction. Archie needed to know that he was free, that he was safe, that Jack Simpson could never touch or hurt him again.

Faced with rejection, with the plea for peace and solitude and to be allowed to forget, Horatio said nothing. If his presence caused such agony and brought on a resurgence of Archie's fits, he did not like to think what an honest discussion of Simpson would do.

Besides, Hunter's sharp ears would surely pick up every word, and Horatio had no desire to share Archie Kennedy's private hell with anyone else in the fleet. Most of the crew on Justinian had known – or guessed. He was certain that Styles and Matthews, at least, remembered. Horatio trusted their discretion and hoped, if he took care, that the stories of Jack Simpson would remain buried. Archie's pride and dignity had already suffered too much.

Unable to step away just yet, he clasped Archie's shoulder, his hand tight against the thin muscle and bone beneath. "All right, Archie. As you please."

The other man shifted backwards, leaning a fraction into the touch. The most minor sign of forgiveness, it eased the sting of Horatio's conscience. He would find a time tomorrow, when Hunter was plotting or taking his exercise in the courtyard, and he would confess everything then. But for the present moment, it was enough to sit here, to watch the night and fend off the nightmares, until quiet sleep claimed Archie once more.

* * *


	4. Delay

Horatio fully intended to say something the next day. He planned and planned, imagining the conversation from every angle, wondering what paths it could take. He pared the story down to its barest bones, his mind unhelpfully filling in Archie's responses as they would have been two years before.

_Simpson severed the rope and shot me - the ball grazed the side of my skull. . . . No, really, Archie, his aim was awry . . . I am not so thick-headed that a pistol shot would bounce off my temple. No, Archie, truly. Ahhh. You spoke in jest. As you can see, I have forgotten even jesting in your absence, with no one to induce me into lampooning myself. Yes, I know. My grim countenance will prove my downfall. . . . Ah. You were jesting again._

_The point - if you will allow me to continue - the point, Archie, is that I accused Simpson of his misdeeds on the Papillion. He challenged me to a duel, admitted that he had jettisoned the jollyboat, and, in his haste, he shot before the end of the count. The ball pierced my shoulder - you see, Archie, despite what stories the men may tell, I know I am mortal - and he attempted to stab me after I would not shoot him. At which point Captain Pellew, stationed on the heights above, borrowed a musket from a marine, and . . . there was the end to it._

It was an overlong story, and one Horatio could not find a satisfactory means of simplifying. He was no orator - speeches were best made by captains, and stories had always been the province of Archie, who could spin the most mundane events into amusing tales. His clever wits could make even a dreary dogwatch seem engaging and novel.

Horatio could not reconcile the seriousness of this account with the careless, puckish story-telling he associated with Archie. Perhaps, if their stars held out long enough, if favor fortuned them, this, too, would in its turn lose its sting and become just another anecdote, another chapter in the continuous logbook of their lives. Perhaps one day a gray-haired Captain Kennedy would make even this stay in Purgatory humorous in retrospect, just as the silvery tongue of Midshipman Kennedy had redeemed Horatio's seasickness in Spithead. At the very least, Archie had made it so that Horatio could stomach hearing that tale recounted now.

After much consideration and care, the words coalesced into succinct clarity. Horatio berated himself for being too concerned with details, for being preoccupied by his need to choose the perfect words. In theory, it should be straight forward. Wait until Hunter left the room, awaken Archie from the listless half-slumber in which he spent the majority of his time, and say the three simple words: "Simpson is dead."

In practice, Horatio found his unfamiliarity and discomfort with such a personal discussion to be paralyzing. He needed to tell Archie, but he wanted to do so in the best way and at the most optimal time, half-afraid that any outright mention of Simpson would lead to an increase in the frequency and intensity of Archie's seizures. And worst of all, there lurked within him a deep reluctance to address the monsters that haunted his friend. He knew of them, and Archie knew that he knew, but they had never before been openly discussed.

The rain did not help matters, confining the officers to their cell with no opportunity for a respite. It lasted for several days, fitful showers that turned the dusty courtyard into a slough of mud. To Horatio's great disappointment, the moisture did nothing to freshen the stale air of the prison. Worse, it prevented him from having his talk. Horatio hated to delay, but his reticence to violate Archie's privacy would not allow him to say anything in Hunter's presence.

So he squelched his story with frustration and discouragement, abhorring his silence in the face of Archie's misery. Archie said nothing to him. Instead, he treated the other two naval officers like unpleasant phantoms come to intrude upon his solitude. He lapsed into a daze whenever someone was not directly addressing him, and even then, his disinterest was clear. He had never expressed joy or relief or any positive emotion upon seeing Horatio again. As much as the acting lieutenant attempted to explain away his friend's indifference, it stung.

In the end, he felt that it was all he could do to curb his tongue, to patiently wake Archie each time he fell into a fit, to maintain a cool exterior under the constant, watchful eye of Hunter. The other midshipman did not approve of Archie. He chose to see the destroyed man in front of him as proof of a weak character rather than the powerful influence of destructive circumstances beyond Archie's control.

For his part, Horatio was confused. He did not understand Archie's actions, but he trusted that once they spoke, all would become clear. He waited with desperate impatience for the rain to cease, for the sun to clear, for their exercise privileges to be restored so that he and Archie could talk privately at last. Horatio waited for the sun to return, damning each overcast morning to its own special circle in Hell.

He waited, the need to speak boiling within him, and then the Duchess of Wharfedale returned.

* * *

**A/N:**  Ah, Horatio. So much introspection, so little time. Feedback and concrit are greatly appreciated, so please let me know what you think and how/if you're enjoying the story.  
Until then,  
AiH


	5. Consequences

Starvation. Delirium. And Horatio wondered as his arms and back burned beneath the load of his unconscious friend, his shoulders screaming with the effort of not dropping his burden to the cold, wet earth. He wondered how he had not noticed, how he had been so caught up in his own affairs - walks on the beach, civilized conversations, preventing Hunter from acting prematurely - that he disregarded Archie's condition. This was not the first time Horatio had lifted an injured man. He could still remember Davies, the blood and the screaming in that battle on the Indy, and he knew without the benefit of measurement that Archie was far too light. He had not been eating - god damn it to Hell. How had Horatio been so oblivious, had his head so dreadfully far up his own backside?

His remorse and panic refused to abate. Neither Don Masseredo's quick response, ushering them into an empty guard's room just on the far side of the heavily barred gate to the inner prison, nor the haste with which his soldiers set to building a fire could ease Horatio's tension. He was drawn tight as a bowstring, tight as a sail stretched to its fullest by a furiously gusting wind, and completely at the mercy of the nasty, snide voice deep in his ear.

Now, as the beginnings of a fire smoked and sputtered in the grate, that voice whispered in oily, honeyed tones that this was all his fault. Horatio was caught, sinking into a black despair, and the only person with the power to snatch him out of the morass of self-pity lay in a fevered delirium in his arms.

At his request, one of the soldiers pushed back the thick, woolen blanket on the bed, and Horatio set his friend down with as much care as his sore muscles could manage. Before tucking Archie in, he reviewed some of the basic techniques he had picked up from his father. Horatio chafed the other man's chilled legs, his fingers fumbling for the pulses on the tops of Archie's feet and behind the bony outcropping at the inside of the ankle. The pulses were thready but present.

Moving upwards, he felt for the arteries at Archie's wrists and neck, which were much stronger. Satisfied, Horatio listened to the midshipman's breathing while gauging the strength of his fever with the back of one hand applied to Archie's forehead. He was burning.

"Damn." Horatio glanced at the guards, who were preparing to leave. "He needs water."

The men conversed with one another in quiet Spanish, and Horatio cursed his lack of understanding. French, Latin, Greek - the educated tongues of ancient Europe were under his mastery, but he could not even sort out the gist of this. Archie spoke some Spanish, he recalled with a fresh pang of guilt.

After a moment's discussion, the shorter soldier walked out. Good. Perhaps they had listened to him, then. Finished with his examination, Horatio drew the woolen blanket up to his friend's chin. He could hear his father, the country doctor's voice thin and reedy with disapproval:

"Delirium, brought on by infection. Likely secondary to starvation and inclement weather. Treat with warmth, sustenance, and rest. If patient is already in a weakened state, do not bleed. This will only further reduce strength." Well. If anyone attempted to bleed Archie, Horatio would go to whatever lengths necessary to stop them.

He lifted Archie's head gently, cradling his neck in the palm of one hand, his long fingers spreading out spider-like around the base of his skull, while he moved the faded pillow into place. Horatio plumped the damn thing until it supported Archie, making the effort of breathing easier. The bedding arranged as best as he could manage, Horatio tugged the sole wooden chair in the room over to the bedside. Still standing, he leaned forward, his entire being focused on the unconscious man, observing every rise and fall of his chest with quiet desperation.

"Archie, why did you do this?" Somewhere between an accusation and a plea, the words were laced with agonized misery.

As the guard returned and the Duchess of Wharfedale rushed in behind him, Horatio could not shake the feeling that this was all his doing. His neglect, his forgetfulness. And he knew that if Archie never mocked him again, never teased him mercilessly for his despondency, if Archie succumbed to this fever, then Horatio would never forgive himself. He would carry the burden of his friend's undoing 'til the end of his days.

* * *

**A/N:**  This one's a bit shorter. Only two chapters left to go! 


	6. Bitter

_"Archie, you would do the exact same if I were in this position."_

_"But you're not, and you never would be."_

Finally, after having drunk half the pitched of cool well water, Archie slept now. Both he and Horatio knew enough to make sure he went slow, taking small sips every few minutes, rather than drinking too much at once and making himself even more sick than he already was. The fire of their emotions expended, they sat in silence, Horatio assisting his friend in reaching for the water, until Archie's terrible thirst subsided, and he slipped into a true, deep sleep.

Horatio slowly lowered himself into the wooden chair at the bedside and fell into a brown study. Perhaps he should not have been so shocked to hear those words from Archie's lips. He knew there were rumors. There had always been rumors, whether on Justinian or the Indefatigable, and even here in a Spanish jail, they continued to run rampant. Rumors of how the two midshipmen were inseparable, of how M'man Kennedy depended overmuch on the other officer.

He had always disregarded them offhand. He and Archie complemented each other, challenged each other. And if anyone was dependent on the other's existence, it was he. Horatio knew he could not survive without Archie's irreverent humor and silent faith and support. Archie believed in him, and so Horatio could believe in himself. Never one for emotive words, he had been sure that Archie knew what he himself knew: they were two sides of the same coin, and they were far stronger fighting at each other's backs than alone.

Perhaps not. Perhaps Archie could not see the truth of things as Horatio saw them. Perhaps his ears had been too filled with the dark whispers of insolent men and not enough with the confidence of his best friend. Horatio felt keenly that this, too, lay at his door. He ought to have been more clear. While he might have been doing the literal carrying this evening, Archie had carried him for so long, his relentless good cheer and unending faith in Horatio towing the other man out of many a gloomy reverie, despite Horatio's fears and concerns and doubt about his own suitability.

It was Archie's memory he sought to honor, Archie's faith in him that he sought to prove correct, that drove him almost as much as his inner need to live up to his own standards and desire to be worthy of Captain Pellew's good opinion. For two years, he had struggled alone, unable to truly confide in any living soul.

He had accepted that Archie was lost, and lost forever. Such good friendships came to many men not at all in their lifetimes, and he counted himself blessed to have had Archie's company for such a long while. He would press ahead and do his duty. It was his nature.

Now, with Archie living once again, Horatio could no more lose him than he could cut off his right arm. He was the bravest man Horatio knew, the best friend that he had ever had. It was an honor to know Archie, to serve, to fight, to swelter in a godforsaken prison beside him. Horatio had thought Archie knew that. He had thought that Archie understood his own value. Apparently, he did not. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

He would have to do better, would have to make it more clear. The words might be difficult, but he would have to say them, as often and as firmly as Archie needed, until he, too, believed.  _I need you, Archie. I cannot do this without you. I cannot get clear of this blasted Mediterranean country without you. I cannot rescue a single one of us without you._

The first thing he would do, once he was convinced Archie was safely back on the road to recovery, would be to finally tell Archie of Simpson. He had forgotten in the long, rainy delay, had assumed falsely that he had said something, but Archie's latest nightmare had reminded him otherwise. The whimpering, the tossing, the turning – all could have been avoided had he been more forthright, and sooner. Horatio added another black mark to the damning tally next to his name.

Still, even the harsh railings of his conscience were not completely unmixed with hope. The end of their conversation, before Archie lapsed into dreamless sleep, had felt like a turning point. Horatio's hands shook again in his lap as he remembered the panic and anger that had consumed him when Archie refused help, refused to drink, because he did not want to be forever coming in a pale second.

Archie would pull through, Horatio promised himself in a feeble attempt to break the chains of doubt that plagued him. They would escape and return home to the Indy, all safe, all sound. And one day, God willing, they would climb back into the sunlit world of the fighting top, and all this would be no more than a bad dream.

Now, if only he could believe it.

 


	7. Hope

**A/N:** And here we are, at the end of this little series of vignettes. Thanks to all those who read!

* * *

Horatio forced aside the disquieting news that his Duchess was not, in truth, a duchess at all. He must ignore it, the jarring sensation that the world had just pitched ninety degrees to the side and that he was falling, falling into nothing. He could deal with that later. Carefully schooling his face into a neutral expression, he looked up to meet Archie's concerned blue eyes. Something tight and knotted broke inside Horatio at that look, a look he thought he might never see again.

"Thank you for telling me, Archie. I will – I will –"

"Confront Desdemona about her deceit?"

And there it was. Even through his exhaustion and hunger, a glimmer of the Archie that Horatio had known shone through. In spite of himself, Horatio smiled. "Not quite so boldly as all that, but I will think of something. In seriousness, Archie, there is something that I need you to hear."

Archie's expression grew more concerned. He waited in patient silence, an invitation for Horatio to continue.

Choking on the words, Horatio tripped hopelessly over his own tongue. "Simpson is dead, Archie."

The other midshipman's face froze. "What . . . how?"

"A week after you were lost. He attempted to cheat in a duel. The Captain shot him."

"Are you . . ." Archie hesitated, his mouth halfway open in disbelief, his eyes darkening. "Are you sure, Horatio? Are you absolutely certain?"

"I saw him die myself."

Looking away, Archie turned his head downwards and to the right as he processed the news. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Horatio took a deep breath. He had expected to feel relief at this moment, but nothing could be further from the truth. He was consumed by anxiety. Had he broken the news too quickly? Would Archie be angry that he had delayed for so long? Or would this reminder of the past simply drag him back to unhappy memory?

In a rush to amend his mistake, Horatio added hastily, "I am sorry, . . . I ought not to have withheld this from you. I wanted to tell you earlier, but there was never a right time."

Archie whirled back to stare at him. "Never a right time?" he said with admirable restraint. There was only a touch of hysteria in his voice. He fumbled for the words, and Horatio was both pained and taken aback to see the ever glib Archibald Kennedy at a loss. When he continued, however, his voice was controlled and dry. "The world over, Horatio, they do not make people of your mold."

Before Horatio could quite work out what this last had meant, the blond sighed and continued, "To be honest, you could have told me at any time, and I doubt it would have altered our current circumstances. Simpson is – was – a part of my past, and there has been quite enough in the present of late to bring me to despair. Now . . ." Archie hesitated again and tried something that faintly resembled a smile. "I could use a moment to think. Why don't you go see the innkeeper about that ham and eggs that you promised me?"

Suddenly feeling freer than he had since Le Rêve sailed herself into that fog, Horatio stood at once. "I will see to it," he declared, unable to keep an answering smile from beaming its way across his saturnine features. He quit the room in search of a guard and some breakfast, all the while grinning like a child on Christmas morning. With Archie's smile, the sunlight had come back into the world, and his guilt and fears dispersed like wisps of fog at daybreak.

Archie lived – and he was the same man who had befriended a hapless Horatio on a bitter winter's morning. The years had altered both of them, but his friend and confidant was there still. And although the Duchess might have betrayed him, although the odds were, as ever, firmly stacked against them, Horatio trusted at last that everything would be all right, in time.

_Fin._


End file.
